They Do
by green-gray eyes
Summary: 'Most people you know hate the sight of their parents, but Lord, not you. [...] And it just about kills you that you'll never see them again.' Darry sees his parents for the last time and it's the hardest thing he's ever had to do.


**The Curtis parents died in a car accident. That's all we're told. S.E. Hinton owns _The Outsiders._**

* * *

You wonder if you'll go to hell for this. Your brothers are asleep in the waiting room; you let them be. It's been a rough couple of days and sleep is scarce.

You rub your eyes. You walk forward.

It ain't fucking fair that this happened. Most people you know hate the sight of their parents, but Lord, not you. Your parents never hit you or beat you or called you terrible names. Not like Steve's father, or Johnny's. Your father taught you the best things you know. Your mother was the kindest person you have ever loved. And it just about kills you that you'll never see them again.

You walk. Keep walking.

You wonder if there's another life. Another life with love songs that your mother used to sing or jokes that your father would tell and his loud, loud laughter afterwards. Sometimes your dad would laugh so hard he couldn't even finish his sentence, he'd turn red and would be all smiles and none of you could help but fall into a fit of giggles right along with-

"Darrel?" you hear a voice from behind you and you turn around. "Darrel Curtis?"

You nod. "Yes, doctor. That's me." You are surprised at your own voice. Your throat is so dry you just wouldn't have thought you'd be able to speak at all.

He nods. Looks weary, his lips in a thin line. He starts to get a bit blurry, so you blink rapidly. Maybe he can see your shaky hands. Maybe he can see right through you, your muscles and height, that behind all that you're just a scared kid wanting to go and hide in a corner. The thought makes you want to puke. He shouldn't know, no one should. You won't even admit it to yourself.

You're okay. You have to be.

"It won't be long before they pass, Darrel," the doctor says softly. Or loudly. You can't tell with your hammering heart pounding against your chest. Everything is such a blur, so dim. It feels like the worst kind of dream, between being awake and asleep, your nightmare pulling you back in, but reality meeting you somewhere a billion times worse.

You gulp. Nod. Look down, hoping he doesn't see the hot tear slip down your cheek, which you would have wiped away, if it weren't for your fists jammed into your pockets. How in the world are you supposed to do this? How are you supposed to go on in there, see your dying parents and walk right out, whole and all bits in place?

You chance a sideways glance at your brothers, still asleep down the hall in the waiting room. Ponyboy has his head burrowed in Soda's neck, arm wrapped around him. Soda's head is bowed, and the crown of his head looks for all the world like your mother's, the same kind of beautiful blond that he'd inherited from her. All you'd gotten from her is your firm tone and blue eyes; the rest of you is all your father. It's unbearable to look into the mirror anymore, all you see is him, how he should look like that, but instead is pale and unwell and bruised. He'll never look like you again. He'll never _look_ at you again...

"Would you like to say any last words?" the doctor asks, gesturing towards the white door next to you both. You tell him yes, but don't make a move. Not right away. You inch your hand closer to the knob in what seems like a thousand lifetimes, and finally take hold of it, but stop. You know you should wake your brothers. But, Lord, maybe you shouldn't. Wouldn't they want to remember your parents alive and happy? Wouldn't the sight of your unconscious parents kill them?

A little voice in your head calls you a hypocrite.

You turn the knob. Sweat beads down your forehead and a thump grows in your throat. You're not going to hell for this because you've already been there and back, and back, and now again...

It's so quiet. So still, it makes your head spin. You fall into the nearest chair, stumbling and out of breath at the sight in front of you. Your mother looks so fragile, so unlike her usual stern and elegant form. Her hair is tied back, not like how her hair would fall into loose strands, curling at the bottom and behind her ears. You edge forward to stroke the top of her head, to kiss her, but you can't bring yourself to touch her. Touching her makes this real. As long as you don't feel anything, this could all be an allusion, some sick delusion you've created.

 _Yeah,_ the voice in your head says, humoring you. _T_ _hat's the delusion..._

Your father is next to her. Their beds are so close together, with everything becoming so unclear and blurry, it's almost as if it's one bed. If you let yourself believe it for long enough, maybe it doesn't have to be a hospital room anymore, it can just be the two of them lying at rest, sleeping. Dreaming. If you convince yourself, maybe they'll wake up, tease you for believing such a silly thing.

You aren't sure how long you sit on that old chair for, arms on your knees and chest tightening, your fists clenched until you think they bleed. Sometime you had taken your mother's hand in yours, cold. You hold onto it still, desperate to warm her. And you'd stared at her face, dwelling on the woman she had been, never small and always the protector. You remember sitting on her lap as a child, and she'd read you stories for hours, sometimes making up her own about some brave prince saving the queen, and you'd love it because you knew she meant you two. Only, you realize with bitterness, she was wrong. You'd never been able to save her.

Your father lays near you, and you can't bring yourself to reach him. When you attempt to stand, your legs wobble until you think you'll collapse. So you stare at him, willing him to stand instead. He doesn't.

He used to be able to do so much. He would work and play and he was never too tired to run around with you boys at the lot or dance with your mother. You miss him already, though he's in front of you, unreachable.

You're unsure how long it's been when the doctor tries to take you outside. All you know is that you're sure he's glad he's a big guy, because you don't make it easy on him when he tries to pull you away. You think you scream until your throat is hoarse for him to let you go, you tell him he's wrong, that both your parents are alright. Worst of all is that you scream at your parents to wake up, to do something, to not let you be taken away from them. But it's futile. There ain't no "taking you away" from them. Hell, they're already gone.

Already you regret not bringing your brothers to see them, knowing that they'll despise you if you told them. They're still asleep in the waiting room, and you make your way over there trembling, and you beg for them to wake up. To please, _please_ wake up. You can't be alone. Not now, not ever.

And, thank God, startled and confused, they do.


End file.
